[RWBY] RWBY Shorts

[Sliverhero]

Snow hammered against the glass of Atlas Tower, winds screaming high above the Kingdom. Inside the office, the storm was quieter, but far more venomous. Jacques Schnee stood before the tall mirror mounted between awards and commendations, jaw tight, eyes burning.

The insignia of the Schnee Dust Company gleamed behind him, he did not look at it.
He looked at the man in the glass. "You disgust me," he said flatly. The reflection scowled back, same posture, same face, but the hatred in its eyes was not ancient patience. It was human.
The hated pure and raw. Jacques Schnee's soul, trapped behind his own features, glared with undiluted fury. François Prelati smiled.

"You always were small," Prelati continued, voice smooth but laced with contempt. "Petty ambitions. Market dominance. Council seats. You thought Atlas was power." The reflection's lip curled silently. "Yes," Prelati mocked, studying the anger in those eyes. "You built an empire of Dust and exploitation. You believed yourself ruthless."

His expression darkened. "But you have no comprehension of scale." He began pacing in front of the mirror, forcing Jacques' soul to watch through his own stolen eyes. "The Arc line," he said sharply, the name bitten off like something foul. "Interfering, sanctimonious pests."

His composure cracked into open hatred.
"Every generation. Every cycle. When the rites align and the thinning begins, an Arc appears. Shield raised. Bleeding. Smiling like sacrifice means something." His fist clenched.
"I arranged their erasure more times than you can fathom. During the Great War, one of them dismantled a convergence that would have unmade Mantle entirely. He tore apart decades of preparation."
His jaw flexed.
"he sacrifice his name and being from history itself, to stop me but he only partially succeeded. I paid his family in blood for that annoyance!" A flicker of irritation passed across his face. "And still the bloodline persisted."
He leaned closer to the mirror.

"So I refined the method." The hatred sharpened into something colder. "Kill too many, and they grow vigilant. Martyr them, and the next generation trains harder." His smile was razor-thin. "But cripple them? Break them subtly?"
He tapped the glass once. "That breeds doubt."
The reflection's eyes blazed brighter with fury.

"Yes," Prelati continued, voice lowering. "I ensured tragedies were precise. A Grimm migration here. A caravan 'accident' there. Just enough loss to make the family cautious. Just enough fear to keep the latest male heir from proper instruction." His sneer deepened.

"A boy raised on stories of heroism and graves. Surrounded by sisters who had already seen too much blood. Convinced he was the weak link."
He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
"No Huntsman tutors. No sanctioned training. No preparation." His eyes burned with frustrated rage.

"And yet he sought Beacon anyway." He spat the word like poison. "You see, Jacques? This is what separates you from me. You cared about reputation. I care about inevitability." The reflection's glare intensified, pure loathing radiating through the glass.

"You think you lost your company to political rivals, to friends ," Prelati continued. "You think your downfall was miscalculation."
He smiled faintly. "You were selected."
His hand rose and pressed against the mirror.
Jacques Schnee's trapped soul mirrored the motion instinctively from within, palm meeting palm through the barrier. His eyes were full of hate, directed not at the Arc line, but at the thing wearing his skin.

"I required a body embedded in Atlas infrastructure," Prelati said softly. "A man positioned to shape industry, to reroute Dust shipments, to reopen old bore sites under the guise of 'economic necessity.'" His voice grew colder. "You were convenient."

The office lights flickered faintly. "The witch believes brute force will win her dominion. The wizard believes he can stall eternity with children and relics." A low, humorless chuckle.
"They cannot stop what they do not see."
He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate precision.

"The SDC grid now hums in harmonic alignment with sites older than Atlas itself. The northern excavations thin the veil precisely where it must be thinned." His eyes gleamed.

"The Arc heir was meant to remain weak. Irrelevant. A symbolic ending to a troublesome bloodline." His jaw tightened. "He is not."
The admission tasted bitter. "But one persistent boy does not undo centuries of preparation."
He looked back at the reflection.

Jacques Schnee's soul glared with undiminished hatred, fury radiating from every line of his face. "You hate me," Prelati observed calmly. The reflection's expression answered plainly: yes. Prelati's smile returned, thin, controlled, but edged with irritation.
"Good."

He stepped back from the mirror.
"Rage all you like. You cannot move a finger. You cannot warn your daughters. You cannot undo what I have set in motion." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Arc line will fall. This time not by slaughter." His eyes darkened.

"But by inevitability, Then the Gods will rejoice.." Outside, thunder rolled over Atlas. Inside, two souls shared one face. One ancient and seething with calculated hatred for a bloodline that would not die. The other trapped, furious, and utterly powerless to stop what wore his name.

 

[revetwrot]

Snow hammered against the glass of Atlas Tower, winds screaming high above the Kingdom. Inside the office, the storm was quieter, but far more venomous. Jacques Schnee stood before the tall mirror mounted between awards and commendations, jaw tight, eyes burning.

The insignia of the Schnee Dust Company gleamed behind him, he did not look at it.
He looked at the man in the glass. "You disgust me," he said flatly. The reflection scowled back, same posture, same face, but the hatred in its eyes was not ancient patience. It was human.
The hated pure and raw. Jacques Schnee's soul, trapped behind his own features, glared with undiluted fury. François Prelati smiled.

"You always were small," Prelati continued, voice smooth but laced with contempt. "Petty ambitions. Market dominance. Council seats. You thought Atlas was power." The reflection's lip curled silently. "Yes," Prelati mocked, studying the anger in those eyes. "You built an empire of Dust and exploitation. You believed yourself ruthless."

His expression darkened. "But you have no comprehension of scale." He began pacing in front of the mirror, forcing Jacques' soul to watch through his own stolen eyes. "The Arc line," he said sharply, the name bitten off like something foul. "Interfering, sanctimonious pests."

His composure cracked into open hatred.
"Every generation. Every cycle. When the rites align and the thinning begins, an Arc appears. Shield raised. Bleeding. Smiling like sacrifice means something." His fist clenched.
"I arranged their erasure more times than you can fathom. During the Great War, one of them dismantled a convergence that would have unmade Mantle entirely. He tore apart decades of preparation."
His jaw flexed.
"he sacrifice his name and being from history itself, to stop me but he only partially succeeded. I paid his family in blood for that annoyance!" A flicker of irritation passed across his face. "And still the bloodline persisted."
He leaned closer to the mirror.

"So I refined the method." The hatred sharpened into something colder. "Kill too many, and they grow vigilant. Martyr them, and the next generation trains harder." His smile was razor-thin. "But cripple them? Break them subtly?"
He tapped the glass once. "That breeds doubt."
The reflection's eyes blazed brighter with fury.

"Yes," Prelati continued, voice lowering. "I ensured tragedies were precise. A Grimm migration here. A caravan 'accident' there. Just enough loss to make the family cautious. Just enough fear to keep the latest male heir from proper instruction." His sneer deepened.

"A boy raised on stories of heroism and graves. Surrounded by sisters who had already seen too much blood. Convinced he was the weak link."
He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
"No Huntsman tutors. No sanctioned training. No preparation." His eyes burned with frustrated rage.

"And yet he sought Beacon anyway." He spat the word like poison. "You see, Jacques? This is what separates you from me. You cared about reputation. I care about inevitability." The reflection's glare intensified, pure loathing radiating through the glass.

"You think you lost your company to political rivals, to friends ," Prelati continued. "You think your downfall was miscalculation."
He smiled faintly. "You were selected."
His hand rose and pressed against the mirror.
Jacques Schnee's trapped soul mirrored the motion instinctively from within, palm meeting palm through the barrier. His eyes were full of hate, directed not at the Arc line, but at the thing wearing his skin.

"I required a body embedded in Atlas infrastructure," Prelati said softly. "A man positioned to shape industry, to reroute Dust shipments, to reopen old bore sites under the guise of 'economic necessity.'" His voice grew colder. "You were convenient."

The office lights flickered faintly. "The witch believes brute force will win her dominion. The wizard believes he can stall eternity with children and relics." A low, humorless chuckle.
"They cannot stop what they do not see."
He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate precision.

"The SDC grid now hums in harmonic alignment with sites older than Atlas itself. The northern excavations thin the veil precisely where it must be thinned." His eyes gleamed.

"The Arc heir was meant to remain weak. Irrelevant. A symbolic ending to a troublesome bloodline." His jaw tightened. "He is not."
The admission tasted bitter. "But one persistent boy does not undo centuries of preparation."
He looked back at the reflection.

Jacques Schnee's soul glared with undiminished hatred, fury radiating from every line of his face. "You hate me," Prelati observed calmly. The reflection's expression answered plainly: yes. Prelati's smile returned, thin, controlled, but edged with irritation.
"Good."

He stepped back from the mirror.
"Rage all you like. You cannot move a finger. You cannot warn your daughters. You cannot undo what I have set in motion." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Arc line will fall. This time not by slaughter." His eyes darkened.

"But by inevitability, Then the Gods will rejoice.." Outside, thunder rolled over Atlas. Inside, two souls shared one face. One ancient and seething with calculated hatred for a bloodline that would not die. The other trapped, furious, and utterly powerless to stop what wore his name.

Click to shrink...

How canon is this to The Arc Family snips, since Prelati is there too, just in a woman's body?

And if it is a different canon, this would be the first time I think I've read a fic/snip where's a different reason why Jacques is a hate sink.

 

[Sliverhero]

And if it is a different canon, this would be the first time I think I've read a fic/snip where's a different reason why Jacques is a hate sink.

Click to shrink...

Its a different canon its tied to previous post i did explaining about lovecraftican cults on Remnant and Prelati here would be a recurring villian as he would be last true magic user from the the era of gods alongside Salem and Ozma.
Also for this the hiccup that happen to Prelati is that Jacques semblance actived in response to his body being jacked by Pretlati.

If Jacque had the proper training and actived he would have been fine but he never did and his semblance was forcibly and partially activate.
He only did enough to save his soul and mind.
So he is the full power of his semblance.

Semblance: Sovereign Clause
User: Jacques Schnee
Description
Jacques' soul is permanently anchored to his body and cannot be erased, overwritten, or permanently displaced.
If another soul attempts to possess or suppress him, he may be forced into the background, but his core identity remains intact. No invader can fully replace him. Over time, his anchored soul destabilizes the intruder and pushes to reclaim control. Any attacks that attack or effects the mind and soul can be easily resisted or blocked by aura.


Secondary Function: Binding Contracts
Jacques can forge Aura-based "contracts" with others through a mutually acknowledged agreement (verbal deal, signed document, sworn promise).

Once established:
He gains limited influence over the target's actions. He can issue simple compulsions (hesitate, stop, speak, stand down).
He can siphon a small portion of their Aura to reinforce his own. The stronger the target's ambition or greed, the stronger the contract.
The contract only forms if the other person willingly agrees, even if they don't realize Aura is involved.

Limitations
Contracts weaken if loyalty fades.
Strong-willed individuals can resist direct commands. Breaking too many contracts at once strains his Aura.
He cannot control someone who never agreed to him. He has to go through with the end of his deal.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

An Encyclical Letter from the Low King of Justice
Terrence II, Steward of the Second Chair
To the Faithful of the Concordance of Bishops
and all who hold fast to the Broken Table
Issued from the Hall of Judgment in Aelia Paravel
in the year 1598 AMF
on the Vigil of the Feast of the Third Dawn

To the beloved in the Table Breaker, scattered across the continents yet united in the one faith delivered once for all to the saints:
Grace, mercy, and peace from the Divine Spark who raised our Lord from the Stone, and from the Table Breaker Himself, who is both the Sacrifice and the High Priest forever.

It has come to our ears, through the vigilant watch of the Stone Breaker Order and the reports of faithful bishops in Mistral and Vacuo, that a pernicious heresy—long thought extinguished—has again raised its venomous head under the name of the so-called Church of the Ashen Bride. This sect, whose roots lie in the ancient poison sown by the Green Sorceress Viridis Serpens in the second century AMF, now spreads its lies in shadowed conventicles, among the disaffected, and even in certain noble houses that have grown cold toward the true light.

We, Terrence II, by the grace of the Table Breaker Low King of Justice and guardian of the Second Chair, declare and condemn this teaching as damnable heresy, contrary to the sacred deposit of faith, destructive to souls, and a direct echo of the deceptions once employed by the Ice Witch and her fallen allies.

The Ashen Bride doctrine asserts that the Table Breaker was not Himself the Divine Spark incarnate, but a created instrument, a puppet moved by the hand of a higher and hidden God; that His death upon the Stone was the act of a subordinate being, not the self-offering of God in flesh; and that further revelations are yet to come through an "Ashen Bride," a supposed future messiah who will complete or supersede what the Table Breaker began.

This is nothing less than the revival of the Serpent's ancient lie in a new guise. Viridis Serpens, that false nun whose true name and nature were later revealed as the Green Sorceress of Underland, sought to bind Prince Rilian and through him to enslave all Narnia. Her teaching—that the Table Breaker was but an avatar, a temporary vessel—served one purpose: to prepare the way for a counterfeit deliverer, an ashen figure whose coming would be heralded as the true fulfillment. We now discern that this figure is none other than the ancient enemy who has long worked in secret, she whom the records name the Witch of Ashes, whose servants have whispered her praises among the Grimm cults and in the councils of those who hate the light.

Let no one be deceived. The Table Breaker is not an instrument; He is the Divine Spark Himself, begotten not made, of one substance with the Father, true God from true God. As the sacred texts proclaim:
"He is the image of the invisible Divine, the firstborn of all creation… For in Him all the fullness of deity dwells bodily" (Edmund to the Quitalans 1:15, 19).

And again: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with the Divine, and the Word was the Divine… And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us" (Chronicles of the Disciples 1:1, 14).

To deny His full divinity is to deny the efficacy of His sacrifice. If He were but a created being, then His death upon the Stone could not have broken the curse engraved there; it could not have paid the infinite debt of sin; it could not have shattered death itself. A creature cannot redeem creatures from the doom written by an infinite God. Only God, Son of the Emperor Above, in flesh could stand in our place, bear our curse, and rise victorious.

This heresy, like its ancestor in the days of Serpens, opens the door to every darkness. It claims the Table Breaker's work incomplete, awaiting a "true messiah"—a claim that invites the rise of false tablebreakers and deceivers. It sows division among the faithful, tempts the proud with secret knowledge, and lures the despairing with promises of a different salvation. In its most virulent forms it has allied itself with the cults that worship the Grimm as agents of necessary destruction, and with those who secretly honor the Ashen One, another form of the White Witch herself.

We therefore solemnly declare:

1. The doctrine of the Church of the Ashen Bride is heretical and anathema.
2. Those who teach it, or who knowingly adhere to it after due warning, will separate themselves from the communion of the Table Breaker's Church.
3. The faithful are exhorted to avoid all fellowship with such teachers, to refute their errors with charity and firmness, and to report their activities to the bishops or to the Stone Breaker Order.
4. Let all bishops, priests, and monks renew their oath to guard the faith once delivered, confessing with one voice that the Table Breaker is true God and true man, who by His own power broke the Table and opened the way to paradise.

Beloved, be watchful. The enemy prowls as a roaring Grimm, seeking whom he may devour. Yet the Table Breaker who overcame the Witch and rose from the Stone is greater than all who oppose Him. Hold fast the confession: "Thou art the Breaker, the Son of the Emperor Above." In this truth is our strength, our hope, and our victory.

May the Divine Spark who kindled the light in the darkness guard your hearts and minds in the Table Breaker, now and unto the paradise of growth.

Given at Aelia Paravel,Terrence II, Low King of Justice
Steward of the Second Chair
In the name of the Table Breaker, who was, and is, and is to come. Amen.

 

[ThunderBasilisk]

Oh my how devious.

 

[revetwrot]

Its a different canon its tied to previous post i did explaining about lovecraftican cults on Remnant and Prelati here would be a recurring villian as he would be last true magic user from the the era of gods alongside Salem and Ozma.
Also for this the hiccup that happen to Prelati is that Jacques semblance actived in response to his body being jacked by Pretlati.

If Jacque had the proper training and actived he would have been fine but he never did and his semblance was forcibly and partially activate.
He only did enough to save his soul and mind.
So he is the full power of his semblance.

Semblance: Sovereign Clause
User: Jacques Schnee
Description
Jacques' soul is permanently anchored to his body and cannot be erased, overwritten, or permanently displaced.
If another soul attempts to possess or suppress him, he may be forced into the background, but his core identity remains intact. No invader can fully replace him. Over time, his anchored soul destabilizes the intruder and pushes to reclaim control. Any attacks that attack or effects the mind and soul can be easily resisted or blocked by aura.


Secondary Function: Binding Contracts
Jacques can forge Aura-based "contracts" with others through a mutually acknowledged agreement (verbal deal, signed document, sworn promise).

Once established:
He gains limited influence over the target's actions. He can issue simple compulsions (hesitate, stop, speak, stand down).
He can siphon a small portion of their Aura to reinforce his own. The stronger the target's ambition or greed, the stronger the contract.
The contract only forms if the other person willingly agrees, even if they don't realize Aura is involved.

Limitations
Contracts weaken if loyalty fades.
Strong-willed individuals can resist direct commands. Breaking too many contracts at once strains his Aura.
He cannot control someone who never agreed to him. He has to go through with the end of his deal.

Click to shrink...

Thank you for clearing this up.

 

[Sliverhero]

Thank you for clearing this up.

Click to shrink...

No problem

 

[AndrewJTalon]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56670802/chapters/169439965

- - -

The sun climbed high over Beacon's sprawling grounds, beating down like a relentless judge on judgment day. Noon sharp, and the shooting range was already drawing a crowd-students murmuring behind barriers, professors watching from shaded stands, even Goodwitch with her riding crop tapping impatiently against her palm. Word had spread like wildfire through dry grass: Emerald Sustrai had challenged Jaune Arc to a duel of marksmanship. Folks whispered about grudges, about pride, about that hat full of holes.

But mostly, they came to see the cowboy shoot.

Jaune arrived calm as a desert morning, Orleans tied up nearby with a feed bag to keep her occupied. He wore his usual rig: brown stetson (a fresh one, no bullet holes this time), poncho draped loose over his shoulders, revolver low on his right hip, the old Winchester '76 slung across his back like an afterthought. His blue eyes scanned the range, polite nod here, tip of the hat there. Pyrrha stood close by his team, her expression a mix of worry and quiet pride. Ruby bounced on her toes, Crescent Rose folded away for once. Yang was smirking at Emerald like she knew a secret about the Vacuoan's mother. Weiss was haughty and confident, while Blake was silent and stoic as ever. Nora had a bag of popcorn. Ren just watched though his eyebrow was slightly raised.

Team CMEN arrived fashionably late-Cinder leading with that predatory grace, Mercury limping along with a smirk, Neo twirling her parasol like she was at a garden party. Emerald strode ahead, Thief's Respite gleaming at her hips, face set in a mask of cold determination. But her eyes burned.

Goodwitch stepped forward, voice cutting through the chatter like a whipcrack. "This is a sanctioned accuracy duel. No Aura enhancement beyond standard bullet charging. Targets at progressive distances. First to miss three shots loses. Or until one party yields. Begin at fifty paces."

They took their marks side by side, lanes separated by a low barrier. First targets: simple bullseyes at fifty yards. Emerald drew first, smooth and fast, twin revolvers barking in rapid succession. Six shots, six dead-center hits. The holographic targets flickered red, perfect scores glowing on the board. A murmur rippled through the crowd-impressive.

Jaune tipped his hat brim up, drew his Nell Goldstone revolver in a motion that was almost lazy. One-handed, fanning the hammer with his palm. Six shots blended into one rolling thunder. Six perfect centers. The board updated: tie.

Emerald's jaw tightened. Next round: one hundred yards, moving targets swinging on pendulums. She holstered, drew again-dual-wielding now, bullets chasing the swaying disks. Five hits, one graze. Close enough for full points.

Jaune reloaded with that border-shift trick of his, thumb spinning the cylinder across his belt line, loading fresh rounds in a blur. He fired standing, no stance, just as natural as breathing. Six clean hits, the pendulums shattering mid-swing.

The crowd grew louder. Mercury whistled low. "Damn, cowboy's got hands."

Cinder's eyes narrowed, watching Jaune with that calculating hunger. Neo signed something filthy; Mercury snorted.

Two hundred yards now-small silhouette targets popping up randomly. Emerald poured Aura into her shots, bullets screaming faster, hotter. She clipped every one, but two were edge hits. Still winning on points, barely.

Jaune switched to his Winchester '76, lever-action working smooth as oil. Boom-boom-boom. Each shot a thunderclap, each target vaporized center-mass. No edges. Perfect.

Emerald's knuckles went white on her grips. Three hundred yards-tiny plates no bigger than a lien coin, flashing in and out. She was sweating now, breaths sharp. Four hits, two misses. Her score dipped.

Jaune rested the shotgun across his shoulder, drew his revolver again. Calm. Steady. Six shots, six plates gone like they'd never been.

Goodwitch cleared her throat.

"Miss Sustrai, I believe the match is over. Perhaps-"

"No!" Emerald snapped, voice cracking like a green branch. "We're not done. New challenge."

Cinder leaned forward from the spectator bench. "Emerald. There's nothing left to prove. He's clearly-"

"Everything to prove!" Emerald whirled on her, eyes wild. Then back to Jaune, who stood patient, hat shading his face. "Coins. We toss coins in the air. Shoot them before they hit the ground. First to miss loses."

The crowd went dead silent. That was old-school gunslinger stuff-legendary, borderline mythical. Even Goodwitch raised an eyebrow.

"That's highly irregular and dangerous-"

"Please, Professor," Jaune said quietly, tipping his hat. "If the lady insists."

Goodwitch sighed. "Very well. Safety barriers up. One coin each per round. Mister Black-toss for them."

Mercury grinned like a coyote, walking forward with a sack of lien coins. "This oughta be good."

First round: Mercury flipped two coins high, one for each shooter. Emerald drew and fired twice-ping, ping. Both coins spun away marked.

Jaune drew once, fanned three shots. His coin took all three, tumbling like a drunken bee. Clean hits.

Second round, higher toss. Emerald nailed hers twice. Jaune once-dead center.

Third. Fourth. Fifth. Emerald's shots grew frantic, bullets screaming. She hit every time, but sweat beaded her brow, hands trembling just a hair as the strain wore on her.

Jaune remained stone-still, revolver barking steady as a heartbeat. Every coin danced with his mark.

Tenth round. Mercury tossed higher than ever, coins glinting like stars against the blue sky. Emerald's shots-ping-ping-perfect-Almost.

Jaune's single shot rang out. The coin flipped end over end, bullet hole clean through the center.

Emerald stared, chest heaving. Her score: flawless. Jaune's: flawless.

But everyone knew who'd been chasing. Who was struggling.

She holstered her guns with a clatter, face burning crimson.

"Enough!" She stormed off the range, shoving through the dispersing crowd.

Jaune watched her go, then holstered his gun. He murmured thanks to Goodwitch, nodded to his team-Pyrrha's proud smile, Ruby's cheering bounce-and followed at an easy stride.

Emerald ducked into the treeline beyond the range, heart hammering. She triggered her Semblance-hallucinations blooming, herself vanishing into a dozen false images scattering through the woods. Real her pressed against an oak trunk, breathing hard. He'd never find-

Hoofbeats. Soft, deliberate. Orleans nosed through the underbrush. Jaune was riding her, reins loose. The mare snorted, stopped right in front of the real Emerald's tree.

Emerald's blood ran cold. He knows my Semblance. He's come to kill me for it. For threatening Cinder's plans, she thought.

She dropped the illusions, hands hovering near her guns, eyes wide.

Jaune dismounted slow, hands visible and empty. He tied Orleans to a low branch, then leaned against a boulder ten paces away. He tipped his hat back, those blue eyes calm as a still pond.

"I know killin' intent, Miss Sustrai," he said quietly, voice carrying that soft drawl. "Felt it on the drives more times than I care to count. You ain't got it right now. Scared, maybe. Angry, sure. But not murder."

Emerald's throat worked. "You... you saw through my Semblance."

"Orleans did," he admitted, patting the mare's neck. "Good nose on her. But my lips are sealed. Word of honor. Ain't my secret to tell."

She stared, fists clenched.

"Why? I challenged you. Shot your hat. Humiliated myself trying to beat you-!"

"You were jealous," Jaune stated, "Of Miss Fall spendin' time watchin' me."

Emerald sputtered, face flaming.

"I-That's-She's the first person who ever showed me kindness! Real kindness! I owe her everything!"

Jaune nodded slowly, no judgment in his eyes.

"That's a pity. More folks oughta be kind in this world. Seems like you've had a rough trail."

Emerald looked away, arms crossing tight. "Don't pity me, cowboy!"

"Ain't pity. Just a fact." He pushed off the boulder, voice gentle. "You're an incredible shot, Miss Sustrai. Best I've seen with dual irons. No need to feel jealous or lesser. Miss Fall's a mighty pretty woman-sad, powerful, dangerous. But I ain't interested in courtin' her."

Emerald glanced back, suspicion warring with something softer. "You're not?"

"No, ma'am." He offered a small, sad smile. "Got my reasons. But I hope... maybe we could be friends, at least. Beacon's a big place, but it gets lonely."

She barked a bitter laugh. "Friends? I don't have friends."

"That's a shame," Jaune said earnestly. "Way you stand by Miss Fall-loyal as the day is long-I reckon you'd make a fine one. And maybe... a good person, underneath."

Emerald scoffed, but it cracked. "I'm not good. Not at all."

Jaune considered that. He then plucked a wildflower from the grass-simple white petals, tough little thing growing between the roots. He held it out.

"Good ain't in the bein', Miss. It's in the doin'. And anybody can choose to do good, if they set their mind to it."

She glared at the flower like it had insulted her. She snatched it, cheeks burning scarlet.

"Do you have to be so damn infuriating?!" she yelled, storming past him into the trees.

Jaune watched her go, shook his head with a rueful chuckle.

"Women."

Orleans snorted and bit him.

"Ow!"

- - -

Back in the dorm that evening, shadows long across the floor, Emerald slipped in quietly. Cinder sat at her desk, reviewing scrolls-plans, maps, and the Fall Maiden candidate's possible identities. Mercury lounged on his bunk, Neo painting her nails something violent.

Emerald bowed her head. "Cinder, I... I'm sorry. For losing control today. It was inelegant. I-"

Cinder turned, golden eyes warm. "No apologies necessary, Emerald." Her smile was honey over steel. "Jaune Arc keeps company with several powerful young women-Nikos chief among them, the one Ozpin is likely to choose when the time comes. Having him believe we're... friendly? That's useful. Very useful."

Emerald straightened, relief warring with confusion. "Yes. Of course."

Cinder's gaze drifted to the flower Emerald still clutched, half-crushed in her fist. "And where, pray tell, did that come from?"

Emerald flushed dark. "Arc... gave it to me. After."

Cinder's smile stayed perfect, but something cold flashed behind her eyes-sharp as a skinning knife. "Did he now?"

Emerald's heart stuttered.

She's... jealous? Of me?

A strange, wicked warmth bloomed in her chest. For once, the devotion flowed both ways. She tucked the flower behind her ear almost defiantly.

Mercury swung his legs off the bunk. "Well, this is gettin' too much like a Vacuo soap opera for me. I'm headin' out-gonna see if Arc's buyin' beers for the drama. Later, ladies."

He limped out, whistling. Neo signed something obscene after him.

Cinder watched the door close, then turned back to her scrolls. But her fingers tightened on the edge of the desk, just enough to crack the wood.

Emerald sat on her bunk, touching the flower petals lightly. For the first time in a long while, something besides devotion stirred in her chest-something dangerous, something almost like hope.

Outside, the moon rose over Beacon like a silver coin tossed high, waiting to be shot.

 

[bazerkerking]

I love Cowboys of Remnant. It is by far one of my favorite serial posts you have done

 

[ThunderBasilisk]

LoL let the drama commence!

 

[ExFelineServer3]

Are we certain that Orleans isn't like Rapidash-lite?

 

[dogbertcarroll]

Jaune gets gifted a Free Assassination card from Neo, but as she was about to give it to him she hears him wishing Salem was dead.

Turns out everyone trying to kill Salem were clumsy unimaginative fools in comparison to our favorite murder muffin.

 

[MetalHead]

Jaune gets gifted a Free Assassination card from Neo, but as she was about to give it to him she hears him wishing Salem was dead.

Turns out everyone trying to kill Salem were clumsy unimaginative fools in comparison to our favorite murder muffin.

Click to shrink...

Ice dust/liquid nitrogen?